


Living Musical

by VeeTheRee



Series: Happy Fluffy Johnlock Time [1]
Category: Imagine Dragons (Band), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Hobbies, I may write more parts, Living Musical, M/M, Song Lyrics, Song fic, Summer, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, domestic john and sherlock, five and each one fitting one song from the album, hot af, i love this album, imagine dragons, it's full of fluff tbh, let me know whatcha think peeps, not in the smut way but aye be my guest and write a follow up, paint fight!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24545161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeeTheRee/pseuds/VeeTheRee
Summary: A one-shot of John and Sherlock being domestic during summer. There is paint, fluff, and music from Imagine Dragons, namely from the album 'Speak To Me', specific song in this one-shot is 'Living Musical'.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Happy Fluffy Johnlock Time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773976
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Living Musical

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inevitably_johnlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitably_johnlocked/gifts).



> Hello! This was inspired by my own headcanon to which Steph replied on her blog @inevitably_johnlocked over at tumblr :) She said, to quote: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH please write this"  
> So I did :) and that's also why I am gifting this to her, she does great recs, and hopefully this will put a smile on her face? I hope so, if this makes a few of you peeps happy, I take it as success. We all need love right now, so enjoy!  
> Also, if you're reading this, Steph, hi!! :D love you <3  
> ***Just an FYI: this work was written in 4 hours on a night I have no recollection of, and I plan to revisit this to fix the typos:)***

London was hot and humid as ever. If it were up to Sherlock, he would lock himself in a freezer and reverse-hibernate until the hottest days of summer were over. Everything was sweaty, sticky, his curls went crazy with frizziness in the humid air, and his impossibly human body was slowly succumbing to the temperatures, as did his mind. Unacceptable. 

It would almost seem that the heat melted not only ice cream and brains, but also all criminal activity. No cases, only boredom. 

John took the heat wave better, although even he started fanning himself regularly with whatever flat-enough thing he had at hand, namely newspapers. He and Sherlock spent days lounging around Baker Street, too lazy to leave the flat into the warmer streets. 

At last, the heat wave began backing off. On one such mild afternoon, Sherlock slouched on their couch, his skin stuck to the black leather, eyes closed. He would never admit it, but he started nodding off. And it wasn’t even night yet. Summers slowed him down worse than eating on a case. Atrocious. 

He faintly registered John’s footsteps as he trotted upstairs, but they were a little heavier. He was carrying something. Sherlock snapped back to attention and sat up, though he had to regain balance as his head spun from the sudden shift. 

John entered through the kitchen. He nodded at Sherlock, placing three medium-sized canvas pieces into his armchair and a plastic bag full of what appeared to be paint next to it. He then disappeared back in the kitchen. 

“What’s that for?” Sherlock asked. Surely he would remember if he told John to get this for a case, and there was none at the current moment. No, maybe he wants to occupy Sherlock by making him paint? No, he knows that wouldn’t work, that would be meticulous. Oh. Of course! He wants to paint himself. Stupid slushie brain. “Oh I see.”

“Yeah, thought I’d get back to it,” John said noncommittally, wiping his washed hands on a towel. 

“Get back to it?”

“I took courses at uni,” he explained, smirking. He folded his arms and leaned on the archway connecting living room with the kitchen, looking at Sherlock smugly. 

“I didn’t know you took art courses,” Sherlock said somewhat accusatory. But then again, it wasn’t like John showed off with his skills, besides his barely-capable writing skills he used for his blog. Interesting. 

“I never told you, so I didn’t expect you to know,” John smiled, pleased with himself. He stepped forward and went through his artistic arsenal. “I bought acrylic paints, I worked well with them back at uni. And I’ve got you a few separate tubes for experiments, should you be interested.”

Naturally, Sherlock stepped closer, invading John’s personal space. He was used to it by now, after a year of dating ever since the day they met, this was nothing new to him. John held up the paints for Sherlock to take and the detective inspected them carefully. 

“I thought they were nice colours for even you to appreciate,” John said, smiling up at him. Sherlock’s lips curled upwards and he placed a brief kiss on John’s cheek, strolling into the kitchen to see what mess he could create with the goodies John got for him. Three tubes, a shade of blue, green, and some autumn yellow. He didn’t bother reading their names, but once he squeezed a tiny bit out, he did have to say they were high quality and vibrant, pleasing to the eye. 

Days passed, the heat wave returning ever so slightly. John quietly tended to his new acquired hobby in the living room (he borrowed an easel from Mrs. Hudson, but who knows where she had gotten it from?) and Sherlock experimented behind the kitchen table. But this comfortable silence didn’t last long. Even though Sherlock appreciated the fact that John got him something to focus on, there were periods of time where he had to wait for his experiments and that was duller than Anderson’s skull. 

And so, he found himself dropping down into John’s comfortable armchair, legs hung over one arm, his neck propped over the other that was closer to the fireplace. sighing dramatically. 

John was standing with his back to the window, that way he got the best light to see his canvas. He paid no attention to his partner, brows furrowed, his hand moving in patterns Sherlock didn’t see that well, though he heard how the brush draped over the blank surface. He sighed again, watching John from the corner of his eye. His brows furrowed a bit more, but no reaction. 

“John, I’m bored,” Sherlock said. He exhaled, his chest falling. Judging by the dampness of air and from what he checked with his app half an hour ago, it was thirty-five degrees celsius. 

“Ran out of paint already?” he asked, unfazed, eyes focused on his painting. Sherlock had to admit that John could paint quite well, in fact. He warmed himself up by sketching different pieces of furniture or fruit he stumbled upon in the flat and eventually moved to the canvas itself. Sherlock secretly loved every single piece he made. 

“I’m waiting for the results,” Sherlock said, eyes darting back to the ceiling. Was it delirium or was it melting? Slight dehydration probably. He also hadn’t slept for five days in a row, what with the unsubsiding hot air during nights and the experiments he ran. It was starting to wear off on him. His eyelids were heavier and heavier, until his consciousness slid from under him, somewhere far away and he drifted off. 

He resurfaced steadily, as if he were underwater and swimming up from depths of an ocean. His ears tuned to a weak melody he recognised, but not immediately. He stirred, his neck stiff, but John’s voice commanded him to stay as he was. 

“Don’t you dare move now,” he said in his Captain voice. Well, Sherlock couldn’t disobey, could he? “I’ve got you just right. Even the light is perfect.”

“Mhm,” he cracked one eye open, glancing John’s way. The easel was tilted diagonally than how it was before Sherlock fell asleep. John looked at Sherlock every now and then before returning back to the easel, the brush firm in his hand making steady strokes. “What about me makes me worthy of your artistic eye?”

John kept humming to the melody, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s. He quirked an eyebrow and looked the detective up, head to toe. Something akin to electricity ran through Sherlock’s body, being held under that careful, calculating gaze, weighing the options he offered John to see - was this how people felt when he was deducing them? In any way, he felt honoured to be the subject of John’s next art piece. He cast a quick glance over his clothes - he was wearing his usual black trousers, but he had no socks on, and he was wearing his old white shirt, unbuttoned, leaving his chest bare. 

“All of you,” was John’s answer, and it made Sherlock all the happier to oblige and not move. They fell into amiable silence once more until Sherlock paid attention to the music faintly playing in the background. It was streamed through John’s small portable speaker that lay on the mantle. 

“You’ve played this before, what is it?”

“Imagine Dragons,” John said, taking a step back from the easel to evaluate his progress so far. His head turned to look at Sherlock and back to the canvas, as though he were watching a tennis match. “It’s from their first album, Speak To Me. I found the playlist on YouTube and liked it, and I think it has a nice summer touch to it. The lyrics are also nice.”

“Don’t be romantic, John,” Sherlock huffed, but his voice was pleased. “It’s not too bad.”

“Glad you like it.”

“I didn’t say I like it, but I don’t mind it.”

“Sure.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his hands on the armchair, ready to get up. “No, stay like you were for a while longer. I’m almost done.”

Sherlock obeyed, reluctantly. He was getting sore. He needed to stretch soon, and also check on the paint he mixed with the poisoned water earlier. The music stopped and John got his phone out of his pocket, tapping the screen once and the music resolved from the beginning. 

“Have you been listening to it on loop ever since I fell asleep?” 

“No, this is the second time I’m actually playing it,” John said, dabbing the brush softly against the canvas surface to make a detail sharper. “You only kipped for an hour, the playlist has less than twenty minutes total.”

“How long until I can move?” Sherlock demanded, unamused. “I want to see the painting.”

“Not yet,” John brushed him off, smirking. 

“I’ll die of boredom in the meantime, John. Don’t be cruel.”

“Oh, I’m not cruel. I could never be cruel to someone as adorable as you.”

Sherlock’s neck snapped as he looked at John, squinting. “I am _not_ adorable.”

“You are when you sleep,” John laughed, tapping on his phone and then pointing at the canvas. “I’ve got evidence.”

He laughed even harder when he saw Sherlock scowling in the armchair. It’s hard to take the detective seriously when he’s pouting while folded so economically in such small space. Sherlock decided enough is enough, swung his legs over and planted them firmly on the wooden floor. John rolled his eyes but restrained from protesting when Sherlock peered over his shoulder to inspect his portrait. 

“Oh,” was all he managed to say. The painting wasn’t finished, it was a sketch in progress, but John started filling out Sherlock as best he could. He was delicate with the brush, Sherlock could tell as much. The trousers were not black but dark blue (“Forgot to buy that one,” John said.), his shirt had its crevices highlighted by light grey, and his curls…. The amount of detail John put into these was astonishing. Sherlock was positively speechless. 

“I sketched out the kitchen behind you, but I want the painting to have rough edges, nothing that stretches all over the canvas,” John said, shrugging. He held his brush between fingers of his left hand as though it were a cigarette. Then, he turned his head slightly, his lips next to Sherlock’s ear. “What do you think?”

Sherlock gulped. He looked realistic, though dreamy. It was almost magical, in a way. How come John never painted before this? He was brilliant with a brush. 

“It’s very good,” Sherlock said, cringing at the way how lamely it sounded. “No, it’s… amazing, brilliant, even. No one ever painted me. I’m flattered, John, really.”

John positively beamed next to him, grinning broadly. “I knew that course would come in handy. Guess we found out what I’m better at than you.”

Sherlock straightened his back, hovering over John. “Please, the theory of anatomy and colour is easy enough. Actually, I think that if you shaded my shirt here, that would give it more depth. Let me show you-”

“Nope, you’re not touching it until it’s finished,” John said, trying to push Sherlock to the side playfully. Sherlock took that as a challenge and reached for the brush in his hand, but John danced backwards out of his reach, the music in the background cheering them on. Sherlock tried to take a hold of his wrists, but John wriggled right out of his hold, the wet brush smearing a trail of blue paint along his white sleeve. 

They both stared at it in horror, frozen in place, Sherlock’s hand placed on John’s right shoulder, the other grabbing on his light blue shirt sleeve. 

“Oh, shit, sorry,” John said, inhaling sharply. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sure it will be possible to wash out. I’ll pay for it. Here, I’ll wipe it off….”

He took a napkin he kept close to wipe the brush off with, but the moment he started to dab at the smear, it got worse. Lot worse. It turned out that not all of the wiped out paint was dry. In addition, the fresh blue stain was also wet, and so Sherlock’s sleeve was now positively colourful. 

“Shit, that’s a lost cause,” John chuckled and he kept wiping the fabric, his laughter growing with every new smear that appeared. He stopped when Sherlock took the dirty napkin away from him. His face was blank and unreadable. For a brief moment he thought Sherlock was angry with him (and understandably so) until….

Sherlock got agitated so suddenly John had no time to react. The detective reached for his colour palette, dipped his fingers in yellow and smeared striped across John’s cheek. John stared, eyes wide open. Sherlock was looking smug. 

“Honestly, Sherlock,” he scowled at him, Sherlock frowning in confusion. Did he overstep a boundary? “I thought we were mature individuals, not twelve years olds. We should clean up.”

He took the palette from Sherlock, looking down at the acrylic paint. Sherlock hummed, uneasy. What would happen now? Was John angry with him? This wasn’t like that time when he burned that hideous jumper of his…

“I suppose you’re right,” Sherlock nodded, stepping aside. “Better get the paint off before it dries.”

Their eyes locked. A smile tugged at John’s lips, his hair illuminated by wavering sunlight from the street. It was seven in the evening, and there were dark clouds on the horizon. It will finally rain. 

John shifted weight from one leg to another, dipping his head to his palette, then at Sherlock. “I said that we should get cleaned up, not that we will.”

And with that he dipped his palm in red and smeared it over the front of Sherlock’s white shirt. Sherlock took a second to process it, but counterattacked with efficiency, painting John’s neck and left ear with green. 

This brawl continued, the two jumping from the other’s reach to no avail. Sherlock straddled John into his lap down onto his black armchair, locking legs around his waist and then smearing pink and blue and red colour into his blond hair. John retaliated by twisting around in the seat, imprinting his hand on Sherlock’s bare chest in yellow, green, and white colours and then wiping the palette itself in his shirt. Front, side, back, he made sure to be thorough as much as Sherlock painted his neck and shoulders with his filthy hands. 

When John realised he ran out of paint, he decided to pursue a different strategy. He put his hands on Sherlock’s cheeks, brushing thumbs along his cheekbones highlighted by orange and pink, and drew him closer. 

Eyes closed, they let other senses take over to take in the chaste, soft kiss John initiated. They both smiled into it, childish as it was, and that’s when John slithered out of Sherlock’s reach and rushed over to his easel to get the paint tubes themselves. He tucked them under his belt while Sherlock processed what had happened. 

Before he managed to stand up, though, John was already coming back at him, royal blue poured into his palm and he bent forward to smear it all over Sherlock’s shirt and chest. The detective giggled, grabbed John’s arms and yanked him forward, taking the tube from his hand. He turned and poured a good amount on his hair, splattering it with a soft tap. 

“Oh, you’re not getting away with this,” John growled playfully, stepping back and getting ready for round two. He opened two other tubes, red and purple, each ready like a pistol. Neither of them noticed that the speaker stopped playing. Sherlock looked like a panther, crouching on his armchair, waiting for opportunity to strike at its prey. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes John forever adored and cherished. This was a side of Sherlock only he got to see. 

“You think I’m done with you?” Sherlock said, his voice low. He jumped towards the middle of the cluttered living room where John was standing. John caught him by the waist and wrestled him, which earned him a good wash of royal blue acros his jeans and shirt as well. He eventually managed to pin Sherlock to the ground, sitting on top of him, but Sherlock got hold of his purple paint, yanked his shirt open and poured all the tube’s contents on John’s torso. 

John laughed, caught Sherlock’s hand and forced it up to the detective’s own face, smearing the new colour over his right cheek. Sherlock showed no signs of giving up, so John had to retort to pinning his hands above his head on the floor. He nuzzled him, mixing the colours on their noses further. 

Sherlock arched up and reached for a kiss, but John suddenly stood up, winking. “Fight’s over, genius. This is no body paint to be messing around with, less so with kissing. I’m going to shower.”

“You’ve still got a tube of ‘moon silver’ left,” Sherlock pointed out from his place on the ground, amused. He propped himself up on one elbow, watching John intently. 

“Yeah, so?” John said, stopping next to his armchair arms crossed across his painted chest. “It would be nice to leave at least one colour for actual painting, you know.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and was up on his heels quick enough to pull John closer to him. John held his hand out of Sherlock’s reach, but Sherlock gave up the fight and only stared at John. He was wearing that amused, smug, yet enamoured expression that existed only for John, and he found himself melting with happiness. 

Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock reached into his trouser pockets and retrieved John’s phone. He didn’t care about that much, but it surprised him. 

“What are you doing?”

“Putting on dance music,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. 

“Obviously.”

“Indeed.”

John’s portable speaker beeped and a song John was very familiar with started playing. It was Living Musical from the album he listened to earlier. He grinned to himself, pulling Sherlock closer. 

_It all begins with a look in the eyes  
That goes beyond the body into  
Feelings you tried to forget all about_

“You git,” he said, cupping Sherlock’s cheeks to look at him.

A sudden attraction

“You actually like the songs.” Sherlock smiled rather sheepishly, his forehead touching John’s. He put his hand around John’s neck and let himself be guided into a slow dance they both sank into on their own. 

_Between few with a few  
Of the mind that distracts  
Of the stars, that it builds  
But it flies to the bottom  
Baby I’m blessed to be here  
The last to be basked in your presence  
Ooh_

They moved together, bodies close, heads prompted against the other’s comfortably. The sun shone its last sun rays through the kitchen, one wide ray illuminating the living room. Baker Street was dark, the clouds looming over the streets of London. It was as if two world were colliding, no, contrasting. One stormy on the inside, the other warm and calm. 

_And it's unexplainable, uncontainable  
It's hard to be asked to have the confidence enough to move  
My lips and speak  
My eyes to yours  
We connect for a moment  
It seems to be a lifetime_

The paint was dry in most places on Sherlock’s chest, and his shirt was weighing down on him. He thought of how ridiculous they must look. Chaotic would be a good word for it, yes. But it is their chaos. 

_I wish I had a lifetime  
To capture every moment of you  
Every moment of you  
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh_

John turned them around, hands placed firmly on Sherlock’s hips. He knew the layout of the living room by heart now, and he navigated them slowly with closed eyes. The next verse he sang alongside the singer,

_I wish I had a lifetime  
To capture every moment of you  
Every moment of you_

Sherlock’s breath hitched, his stomach fluttered. John looked up at him, smiling. God, they were both besotted beyond repair, weren’t they?

_Captivating every sense  
Exhilarating, feelings dance  
I'm just a fool  
For pretty girl with confidence, oh_

“Who’s the girl, then?” Sherlock asked, staring John down with a raised eyebrow. 

John shrugged, swirling them around. “Does it matter? We both could be, depending on the point of view. I still sometimes wonder how on earth did I land such a man as yourself, Mr. Holmes. After all, I’m just a fool, every since we met at the morgue, we both know it that there was this ‘sudden attraction’, like you were literally a living musical, minus some of the music you’d expect. And as it was in the song, I am blessed to be in your presence. And I can’t explain it, but every time our eyes meet, I just feel the need to get up to you, hug you, kiss you, whatever it is that would make me and you stay in each other’s space forever. A lifetime, Sherlock. I want to capture every moment of you, never let go.”

_I never met my match melodic melodies mumble  
A cocky young thing meets a girl and I stumble.  
For the first time in my life  
I don't know where to start  
With a brush in my hand I don't know when it's art  
When I laugh she must smile  
When I smile she must laugh  
Is it possible that I'd go for a girl in my path?_

Sherlock stared at John, both men coming to a halt. He started playing with the back of John’s hair, the sticky paint clumping its short strands with vigour. He didn’t know whether he could bring himself to speak without his voice quivering. He swallowed, gave a small nod, touching their foreheads again, pressing closer to John whose strong arms hugged him. 

“I…” he began, releasing a long exhale. 

John nuzzled into the crane of his neck, both of them locked in an embrace, illuminated by one last sun ray resting on Sherlock’s back and John’s face. 

“I perceive it the same way, John,” he said, biting down the emotions awoken by John’s confession. It is nothing new to hi and yet hearing it out loud, in such a vulnerable and intimate moment, makes him shake with something he tried to repress for many years before John came in like a sun into his life. “I should be the one blessed by your presence. Your patience with my antics. My rudeness. My person in general. My…. life before wasn’t ideal, not good. But with you, it is the opposite, everything has a colour - like ourselves right now - and sometimes I feel so full of happiness I might actually burst. A living musical indeed. I want the whole of this lifetime to be with you, John. To never let go.”

He felt John tense a little under him, but he relaxed as quickly. He hugged him tighter, hands brushing up and down Sherlock’s spine in a comfortable rhythm. At last, they pulled apart ever so slightly just so they could look each other in the eye. They hadn’t said it in the one year they have hit it off immediately from the start. 

John looked at Sherlock’s lips and then at his face, hopeful, happy, besotted.

_Who am I to beat the bush?  
I just want you, skip the mush  
Baby, be beautiful  
'Cause you're a living musical_

“I love you,” they said in unison, kissing at once. The kiss was sweet and soft and slow, even deliberate. As though it was something delicate, precious (and it was) and it couldn’t be spoiled by anything hasty. 

At last they halted, lips still brushing lightly against the other’s. In the distance outside they could hear a low grumble of thunder approaching. 

“Forever?” Sherlock asked, eyes soft and glassy. 

“Always,” John replied reassuringly, kissing Sherlock once more, cupping his cheek tenderly. When he stopped, he was grinning mischievously. “Right, how about we go and try to wash all this paint off?”

Later that night, when the storm that was holding off for weeks raged above London in all its mighty power and electricity was out, John and Sherlock sat in their bedroom, dozens of candles safely lit about the room. Sherlock had his head placed in John’s lap, who was now reading a thriller (Sherlock commented on it loudly every five minutes, spoiling a thing or two about the plot). Eventually John put the book aside and his fingers slipped into Sherlock’s damp curls, massaging his scalp. 

Sherlock splayed like a cat, relaxing into the caring touch of his doctor. His best friend. His lover. His forever. He peeked at John, who kept smiling at him the the sun. He was thinking the same thing.

They were each other’s living musical. 

_Their always._

**Author's Note:**

> What is that in the sky? Is it a plane? Is it a bird? NOT IT'S FEELINGS.  
> Are you crying yet?  
> I may do more one-shots for the other songs from the album :) these two gits need fluff in their life (and we leech on it symbiotically)  
> I hope you liked it, and feel free to leave a comment!  
> 


End file.
